Title: Three Words
Author: Vickie Moseley
Spoiler: Season 8 up to and including Three Words
Category: A MSR
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I am not infringing on any copyrights.
Archive: yes
Comments: I swore I wouldn't do it, but I had to
fill in a blank here. It doesn't change my opinion
of the storyline for this episode, but it just made
me sleep better at night.
My first contribution to Crystalship. You guys are a
crazy mixed up bunch and I already feel at home. Now
that's scary!
Three Words (I prayed, too)
By Vickie Moseley
It was getting late. Scully tried to hide her yawn,
but a second one snuck up fast on the first and he
caught her eye.
"I think somebody needs to get some sleep," Mulder
said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
They'd finished dinner and had settled on his sofa.
Just before she sat down, Scully had dug around in
the video cabinet and pulled out a tape, plugging it
into the VCR with a mysterious smile on her face.
Within minutes, the Star Spangled Banner was being
sung at the opening game of the last World Series.
The smile Mulder gave her was worth the tears she'd
cried all the way through the taping of the games.
She curled up next to him and watched his face as he
watched the game, each hit, each run, each out coming
as a complete surprise to him even though the series
had ended nearly 5 months before.
But it was almost 11:30 when the last strike was
called on the batter. It was just coincidence that
her ears decided to equalize their pressure at
exactly that same moment. Or maybe it was a
pavlovian response. Game over, time for bed. It was
a ritual they'd developed over the few short months
when she shared his bed in this apartment, before his
abduction.
"You get the bathroom first," he told her and nodded
toward the hallway. She would have leaned over for a
kiss, but their conversation, or faux conversation of
earlier in the day had left her feeling unsure. He
didn't know where he fit in. If he didn't know where
he fit in, how the hell was she supposed to know
where _she_ fit in?
She waddled down the hall to the bathroom. Closing
the door, she pulled his Knicks jersey off the hook
and pulled off her sweater and slacks. She had the
jersey all the way over her head when she remembered.
She'd basically co-opted the shirt. He'd loaned it
to her once when she'd come over and complained that
she was cold. Would he mind if she wore it now?
Especially since her bulging girth was stretching the
material beyond any hope of reshaping? She stood
there a moment in total indecision. Finally, she
shook her head and opened the door.
He was standing in the hallway, staring at the door
to his room.
"Mulder, I can sleep on the . . ." She didn't even
get to finish the sentence before he shot her an
exasperated look.
"Scully, there is no way I'm letting you sleep
anywhere but in a bed. There's plenty of room. At
least, there always was before," he said with a tiny
spark of mischief in his eye.
"I'm sure we can make room," she said dryly. If he
thought twice about the jersey, he made no mention of
it. That almost made her worry more, that he might
be afraid to comment. She was double, even triple
guessing herself now and it was about to drive her
crazy.
She pulled back the covers on the bed and fluffed the
pillows. At least she'd had a day to come back and
tidy the place a bit before bringing him home. He
would never know that since the funeral she only went
to her apartment to get clean clothes once a week.
She'd slept in his bed every night for three months,
sobbing herself to sleep, in the hopes of at least
dreaming of their time together.
His return was so much different than anything she'd
imagined. A younger version of herself would have
scoffed at her prayers. She'd never prayed to God to
bring her sister back to life. She'd never even
prayed to see her father back from the dead. But
with Mulder, it was different. She'd prayed that she
would wake up and find out that it was all a horrible
mistake. How could she have even known that was
exactly what had happened? But it all worked,
somehow, and all her prayers were answered.
Or were they? She was lying in his bed, waiting for
him to come out of the bathroom, turn off the light,
crawl under the comforter next to her. And then
what? So far, with the exception of a kiss he'd
groggily place on the crown of her head the moment
he'd awoken, there'd been no physical contact to
speak of. He hadn't even touched her arm or her back
on the way home.
Was he repulsed by her condition? Did he think,
mistakenly, that she didn't want to be touched? Was
he acting out of some misplaced chivalrous concept of
'courtly love' now that she was with child? He knew
full well that the baby was his, that she was 6 weeks
pregnant at the time of his abduction. They'd talked
about it briefly at the hospital when he was trying
to place events in order. What was his problem?
Or was it hers? A tiny voice in the back of her mind
that sounded very much like her mother asked her what
she had done to reach out to him. Had she taken his
hand, even if he hadn't volunteered it? Had she
snuck her arm around him as they sat, not ten inches
apart through an entire 9 innings of World Series
play? Maybe he was waiting for her to make the first
move. "Right now I don't know where I fit in."
In the past they had shared the role of 'aggressor'
in the relationship. She couldn't even say for
certain who had made the first move when they'd
finally broken down the walls between them. Who
crossed the Rubicon first? She just couldn't
remember. But if it was like everything else in
their partnership, they probably moved together, as
one, as a team.
How did you make a team work again after so long
apart?
She was almost asleep when she felt the mattress dip.
"You OK?" she asked sleepily.
"Yeah. Getting dressed and undressed is still a
little bit of chore," he said with a deep sigh. "I'm
fine. Doin' great." He said the words but he sure
didn't sound convinced of them.
She lay there, right on the edge of sleep but growing
more awake because she could feel him so near. She
could hear his breath, heard the rustle of the sheets
as he moved his legs and stretched to find a
comfortable spot. His hair even rasped against the
pillowcase as he turned his head toward her. She
expected him to say something at any moment, but
after a very short while, she realized he'd fallen
asleep.
With tears drying on her lashes, she drifted off.
She didn't even have to look at the clock to know
what time it was. 2:36 am. It had been 2:36 am
every night for the past three weeks. No matter when
she went to bed, no matter how much water she
consumed or refrained from consuming, her constricted
bladder seemed to know exactly when it was 2:36 and
that was when it demanded to be emptied.
Sleepily, she rolled herself over and levered herself
out of bed. It was becoming a major campaign just to
get out of bed at night or out of most chairs during
the day. Soon, she mused, she'd need a forklift.
She grimly set off for the bathroom, not even
bothering with the light. She'd made the trip so
many times she could do it in total darkness with no
problem.
Finished, she tried to be quiet as she rolled herself
back into bed. Finding her pillow and placing it
between her knees, she attempted to find that sleepy
thought she'd had just as she'd awakened.
"Scully?"
If his mouth had not been so close to her ear, she
might have missed his breathless whisper.
"Uh huh," she said, her heart skipping a beat. What
was coming next, the light at the end of the tunnel
or just an oncoming train? She braced herself of his
next words.
"When I said I didn't know where I fit, I didn't mean
. . . at least I hoped . . ." He stopped for a
moment and Scully could hear his heart beating loudly
in his chest. He was as nervous as she was.
She reached down and found his hand. Raising it to
her, she pressed it against her chest, just in
between her breasts. "You belong right here," she
said softly. "Where you've belonged for a very long
time."
All movement stopped. She was expecting him to pull
his hand away. Instead, he held it there, his palm
flat against her breastbone, his fingers stiff.
Slowly, he relaxed, but he didn't move his hand.
"I have no idea what to do, Scully," he said, his
voice tight and strained and in the dim light, she
could see a gleam on his lashes. He was crying. Her
heart broke and she let out a sob.
"Mulder, things have happened, yes. Horrible things
and wonderful things and we could spend the rest of
our lives trying to understand them. But if there is
one thing that you've taught me after all these
years, it's that sometimes, you just have to accept
things as they are and not try to make sense of
them."
He coughed out a snort. "Can I get that in writing?
With witnesses?"
"I'll witness it," she said encircling her arm around
his shoulder and pulling him toward her.
"Scully, the baby," he protested, but she would
release him and he had to move or hurt her arm.
"The baby is fine. Nothing can hurt the baby.
Nothing you could possibly do would hurt the baby,"
she crooned. She cradled his head against her breast
and let his tears soak the thin fabric of his shirt
she wore.
After a while, he placed a kiss on her chin. "Do
tears stain nylon?" he asked in mock seriousness.
"I hate to tell you this, Mulder, but unless you gain
enough weight to play defensive lineman, you aren't
going to be wearing this shirt in public again," she
told him as she kissed his forehead.
"Maybe, just to be sure, you should take it off
before you ruin it," he said and she could see the
smoky expression in his eyes. In an instant, they
turned a dull brown. "Unless, well, what did you
mean that I nothing I could do . . ."
"We'll work it out," she told him as she wiggled out
of the shirt. "I just get to be on top for a while."
He smiled and rolled on his back, pulling her closer.
"I like the view better that way, anyway."
Several heartbreaking nights shattered in one and
finally they lay curled in each other's arms. He'd
retrieved the jersey and helped her pull it back on.
They were drifting off to sleep again.
"Scully?"
She smiled this time. Her fear and uncertainty had
disappeared with the drying of her tears. He was
home. They were together. Her prayers had been
answered.
"Uh huh," she whispered, letting the yawn overtake
her this time, regardless of what he would think.
"I prayed, too," he said softly into her hair. "It's
good to be home."
The end.